With a time, to an hourglass,
There is sand, that trickles, past my form,
Sculpted, as the David, and crucified,
For the sins, of a one.
Woman! My love, you are, as death,
Never lifted above
The closeness, to poverty.
With each groan, in savage pain,
You remain enticed, by loathing.
So much pain,
Has crossed, your eager mind.
So much shame,
Has made itself, like a quilt.
You resonate, with me,
And my form, in a grave.
I am here, beneath you, for I have died,
And the angels, were once weeping,
And I have you,
The only angel, to truly shed a tear,
And spill your rain, unto my death.
You are a step, above me,
Lost, in ruin,
And I am, below you.
I am without, the ability to aid,
I am without, the urge to commit,
Because, I am dead.
Your weary form, had wrapped around me,
And, felt sad.
Your beauty, melted about me,
And turned, to dust.
Without me, you’ll grieve for eternity.
As you’ll do, beneath moonless nights,
You’ll grieve, and see your breathless, former life,
As a pure plight, because you wish to end, those cries,
By a knife, that shall, cut flesh, and bury strife.
All these lies, you have swallowed,
And could have made better, in endless morrow.
Where is the salvation, to arise,
When the world falls, beneath these heavenly lies?